


Launch Pad

by Heather_Night



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Lawyer Peter Hale, M/M, POV Peter Hale, Panic Attacks, Writer Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 03:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12998901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heather_Night/pseuds/Heather_Night
Summary: Peter didn’t think he could’ve built such a well-constructed lever and fulcrum if he’d tried.  He looked to Stiles to share his amazement and paused at the abject misery etched on his lover’s face.





	Launch Pad

**Author's Note:**

> The most important thing I should mention is that if descriptions of panic attacks are a trigger for you then please be safe and bypass the story.

Peter stepped into his apartment, his nostrils twitching in approval. Homemade marinara sauce including fresh basil was his best guess and although it was a simple food it was also one of his favorites. 

Life was good at the moment. He had a challenging job that he enjoyed, at least most days. He had a relationship with the daughter he never even knew he’d fathered until six months ago. And he had Stiles.

He’d been dating the younger man—one of his daughter’s ex-boyfriends but Malia had been the one to set them up so he tried not to let that little fact weird him out—for two months and the sex was amazing.

The non-sexual intimacy…well, there was room for improvement. Stiles might not ever return Peter’s affections in the way Peter desired but for now he was willing to see how things developed.

An attorney and a fiction writer; Peter thought it made sense they got along so well as they both had an affinity for words, enjoyed using them in endless combinations and were flexible with the truth. 

Having a boyfriend willing to make his favorite meal was nothing to be so callously overlooked either and Stiles seemed to enjoy experimenting in Peter’s remodeled kitchen. His boyfriend had helped select some of the sleek steel appliances but Peter himself had selected the cherry cinnamon mist hardwood flooring which added warmth to the room, and since it wasn’t homogenously colored it didn’t require daily dusting, something Stiles who for all of his creativity could also be exceedingly pragmatic, had pointed out. 

Peter’s attention moved from the hardwood floor to the black granite island in the middle of the space; he’d been right that Stiles would look magnificent draped across its surface, the darkness a perfect canvas for his creamy pale skin. 

Stiles had been right about the white birch cabinets. Paired with the white walls and ceilings, it opened up the space and filled it with light. 

Moving into the kitchen, Peter smiled at the picture Stiles made. One large hand held the lid while the other stirred the simmering sauce. That, right there, was his favorite part of the kitchen. For all of his gifts when it came to using words, Peter struggled with finding the right way to convey to this man how much he meant to him.

“It smells delicious in here.” Peter hadn’t meant to startle Stiles but the other man spun around, chest heaving in fright. He could imagine what would have happened if he’d declared his love for Stiles.

Most of the frightened look melted into welcome as Stiles smiled. “I didn’t hear you come in. Do you want a drink before dinner or should I put the water on to boil?”

Peter must’ve given Stiles quite a start, as he seemed extra jittery, his weight shifting from foot to foot. “I think a glass of the Montepulciano d’Abruzzo would be wonderful. Please pull out the corkscrew there in the drawer next to you and I’ll find the bottle and glasses.”

After collecting the items, Peter set them on the island. He took a moment to study the range area with a critical eye. Originally a cabinet was going to sit in that area, the wall lined with the white birch cabinets above the range without a break, but once the overhead range hood was installed there simply wasn’t enough room. The contractor had suggested a shelf and although Peter thought it was superfluous he’d acquiesced. It was a place to display a pretty cobalt blue vase, jar of olives or other items lending a splash of color.

After one more swirl, Stiles left the wooden spoon on the edge of the Farberware pan and set the lid down on the counter before reaching into the drawer and retrieving the corkscrew. 

What followed next was a comedy of errors worthy of laughter.

Stiles hip-checked the drawer shut.

The shelving unit set above the range disgorged the vase Peter had just been admiring. 

The vase landed on the handle of the wooden spoon.

The spoon took flight, the weight of the vase ejecting it into space like a missile off of a launch pad.

The contents of the spoon sprayed a wide path, coating the ceiling with splotches of dark red tomato sauce.

Peter didn’t think he could’ve built such a well-constructed lever and fulcrum if he’d tried. He looked to Stiles to share his amazement and paused at the abject misery etched on his lover’s face.

“I’m so sorry, Peter.” Stiles gulped, wide panicked eyes tipped up toward the ceiling. His usually creamy complexion took on an unnatural pale hue.

“It was an accident, pet, pure and simple. We couldn’t have achieved this outcome if we’d tried.” Peter tried to console his floundering boyfriend but it didn’t seem to be working. 

Stiles heaved in a great gasp of air and the ensuing exhalation was labored.

“Stiles, what is it?” Peter clutched at his boyfriend’s shoulders, hoping his touch would ground him. He knew Stiles had suffered from panic attacks as a child but surely this…accident didn’t rise to that level of response.

“Can’t…catch…my breath.” 

Peter looped his arm around Stiles’s waist and tugged him close as he steered him back toward the living room where there was a comfortable couch. For the last two steps Peter seemed to bear all of Stiles’s weight but at last he was able to lower the other man to its surface. 

“Do you need medicine? Should I call 911?” Peter didn’t want to assume he knew what was going on here and he waited tensely until Stiles shook his head, declining. The only positive thing Peter could say at the moment was Stiles’s lips hadn’t turned blue.

Peter perched next to Stiles, his hand rubbing comforting circles on his back. When Stiles didn’t push him away, Peter added his other hand and massaged the back of the tense man’s neck and shoulders, down his arms, and then started all over. 

Stiles visibly drooped but at least his breathing had evened out. 

“Why don’t you stretch out here for a moment? Maybe a glass of water?” Peter didn’t know what to offer and he absolutely hated being at a disadvantage; he should know what Stiles needed. 

Rising to his feet, Peter helped settle Stiles so he was lying down on his side. Peter pushed sweat-dampened hair from Stiles’s face, still not liking the ashen quality of his skin. 

Peter was certain he would never preface _panic attack_ with the word _just_ again. The racing heartbeat, faintness and breathing difficulties Stiles had just suffered were horrible to watch. 

After turning off the still simmering sauce, Peter returned with a glass of cold water from the carafe in the refrigerator. He knelt on a knee and helped hold Stiles’s head up so he could drink from the glass. 

“I’m sorry.” Stiles’s whisper was barely audible and it melted Peter’s heart.

“It’s okay, my love. You’re going to be just fine.” Peter soothed Stiles the best he could, with both soft words and soft touches.

“Will you sit with me?” Stiles barely made any demands of Peter. This was definitely something he could do. Peter would give Stiles the world if he could.

Peter held his arms out and when Stiles levered himself upward, arms also extended, he scooped the other man into his arms and cradled him close to his chest. After executing a quick pivot and turn, Peter sank down onto the cushions, Stiles held closely in his arms. Even though they were of a same height, it never failed to surprise Peter how light Stiles was in comparison. It was as though the other man was constructed of Microlattice, the so-called lightest metal ever. 

Stiles wound an arm around Peter’s neck and buried his face in the exposed skin. Peter hugged him tighter, rocking from side to side lightly, doing his best to comfort the still distraught man.

“What is it, love? Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Peter used his least threatening tone.

Stiles lifted his face, skin still pale and eyes too wide, staring. His mouth was ajar and on someone else the look might be construed as witless but to Peter Stiles looked adorable. Now if only he could get the armful of man on his lap to talk to him. “Tell me, Stiles. Please.” 

“That’s twice.” Stiles finally answered.

“What’s twice?” Pulling information out of his recalcitrant lover sometimes turned into foreplay but at the moment he was baffled and he wanted some answers.

“You called me love.”

Oh.

“I did. Does that bother you?” Peter didn’t think he’d referred to Stiles as _love_ until after the panic attack.

“Do you mean it?”

“I do. Is that a problem?”

This quick volley of information exchanged was more to Peter’s liking. He could work with this.

“I thought you didn’t want a serious relationship.”

“That may have been true when we began dating but how could I not want a deeper relationship with you now that I know you? Is that the problem? Am I rushing you? Is it the age difference?” Peter stared into the unusual shade of brown eyes; he’d considered honey and bourbon as apt adjectives but those weren’t quite right. Stiles’s eyes were as unusual as his nickname. As unusual as the man himself. 

“How can you be so nice to me after I ruined your kitchen ceiling? If I hadn’t suggest white, the stains might not be so noticeable.” Stiles seemed flummoxed but at least the pale skin was receding, replaced by a pretty pink blush. 

“That was an accident. I saw it happen. You are not to blame. I love the white cabinets and paint in there. Now, please, tell me what’s upset you so.” Peter tried again to get to the bottom of the problem. You’d think as a high priced litigator he’d be able to maneuver the truth out of one young man but Stiles could be stubborn.

“You remember when I told you about my mother dying young?”

Peter shifted gears quickly, trying to keep up. “Of course. Frontotemporal dementia I believe you said.”

“Tomorrow I’m scheduled for an MRI.” The way Stiles was parsing the information out was absolutely killing Peter and he realized this is what his sister, Talia, probably felt like during most of their conversations. Peter was a master at withholding bits of information and trying his sister’s patience. It seemed as though he’d met his match.

Claudia Stilinski had died of a rare type of dementia and Stiles had to have an MRI, ergo, there was some level of concern that Stiles might also suffer from the illness.

Peter clutched Stiles closer to him. “I haven’t noticed a change with your memory. Or behavior. Aside perhaps from your reaction to some spilled marinara sauce that is.” 

“Even though I had a genetic test and nothing showed up, it’s only present in approximately 10 – 40% of all FTD cases. Hence the MRI every ten years.” Peter’s own hammering heart slowed its pace at Stiles’s explanation. A preventative diagnostic test was something he understood. He wasn’t one to bury his head in the sand and ignore the facts. Except perhaps when it came to Stiles. 

“What time is the test?” Peter had court at 1 p.m. but he would reschedule it if was in conflict with Stiles’s test.

“10 a.m. although I have to arrive at 9:30 to check in. Why? I thought you had court tomorrow.” Stiles was peering from beneath locks of hair trying to obscure his face. Peter loved touching, and holding on to, the silky strands but he wasn’t a fan of his lover using his hair as a curtain to hide behind.

Peter smoothed the troublesome hair back from Stiles’s face. “Even if I had court I would come with you. That is, if you don’t mind me coming with you?”

A tiny smile cracked Stiles’s face. “I think I would like that. I guess I’m a little more stressed about the MRI then I was aware and I think your company would help.” 

Peter normally would’ve pointed out that a panic attack was definitely a sign of being stressed but he swallowed his words. Although Peter reveled in the face he could share his cynical outlook with Stiles and Stiles would also join him, now was not the time for that. Instead he wanted to wrap Stiles up and protect him. Nurture him. Much as Stiles seemed to do with his father and friends. 

“Do you feel up to having some of that delicious marinara sauce in the mean time? I’ll put the water on to boil.” Peter squeezed Stiles, enjoying their closeness.

Stiles tightened his grip around Peter’s neck, hugging him back tightly. “Thank you.”

Peter knew the gratitude was for more than the offer to finish preparing the meal. What Stiles didn’t seem to realize yet was that Peter had deep feelings for him and planned to woo him. 

Returning the hug with everything he had, Peter eased back before tipping Stiles off of his lap. The look of surprise was one Peter was used to seeing on his lover’s face. Enjoyed putting on his face. 

Once he was standing, Peter offered his hand. “Come along, my love. I have plans for you.”

Stiles, without hesitation, took Peter’s hand. 

The one area in his life Peter hadn’t felt was quite in sync suddenly fell into place.

It felt like coming home.

 

Finis

**Author's Note:**

> The actual hurt/comfort prompt for this fic was Hidden injury/illness but Hiding Medical Issues was the best match for a tag. Potato...potahto.
> 
> Most fics I write borrow something from true life, namely mine, and the marina sauce sprayed all of the ceiling and walls scene happened after we'd been living in our new house for approximately 14 days. FYI, paint is an amazing thing that can cover a multitude of sins. Fortunately the spouse and I both cracked up after the incident; I highly advise a shared sense of humor when contemplating merging households with someone.
> 
> Thank you for reading this very short romp!


End file.
